What You Can't Have
by Mostlypoptarts
Summary: After the Battle of Hogwarts, among the dead is one of the last people expected to be gone: Hermione Granger. Strangely, one of the people affected the worst is also unexpected. Draco finds himself mourning Hermione and misses her in the worst way, at the same time blaming himself. Obviously AU Dramione, very angsty for some reason


You go to the funeral alone. It's the biggest funeral you've ever been to, so many people there-that's what _good_ people like her get, they leave a legacy and everyone mourns them- but you're alone, so alone in the crowd of people and you know exactly why. Your parents would never accompany you and everyone else just casts furtive glances and hushed whispers in your direction.

They know what you did. _What you did. Look what you did._ It just keeps ringing in your ears, until it's just as much as a part of you as that bloody tattoo on your arm. They both serve no purpose but to antagonize you, to remind you day in and day out what a horrible person you are. Because if it weren't for people like you, she wouldn't be dead. She'd be happy and laughing and smiling and you wouldn't be mad with grief. It breaks your heart to think of it, how stupid you were, but no matter how many times you tell yourself to dwell on it, your mind always goes back to that.

No, no it wasn't just people like you. It was _you._ You can try to pass it off as someone else, you didn't cast the fatal curse after all. But beside that, you were right there, you could've stopped it, pushed her, jumped in front, _something_. But you didn't, and you think the guilt may just kill you. You're such a coward, you let her die to save yourself. You can't be the hero now, what hero would let that happen?

Hermione Granger is dead. As Potter ever-so eloquently puts it in his eulogy, she is dead. Dead, dead, dead. That's all you hear, not her good deeds, not who she was, just that she's dead. It hits you like a brick to the ribs, that's her in the casket, that's her being lowered into the ground, that's her not breathing, all because you're a _coward._ You should be the one in her position, paying for your crimes just as you should, not an innocent woman- no, a girl like her.

You're the first to leave after the ceremony, you can't bear to have anyone talk to you, because you know that they'll be all nosy questions and prying inquiries. You sat in the back the whole time, though on your way out you can't help but hear snippets of others' conversations. _Such a lovely woman, she didn't deserve this, too young to die._ All too true, though complaining about the past does nothing to fix the future.

As you leave, you glance back and realize you don't even remember what her voice sounds like.

 _You're being dramatic,_ your mother says as you return home. She doesn't get it, though. She doesn't realize that you were right there, you saw the light leave her eyes, and most importantly, you _loved her._ She can't comprehend your grief because you said you hated her, said she was a filthy mudblood, and said nothing as your aunt gave her a scar that branded her as such. You spoke up at all the wrong moments and stayed silent when there needed to be action. She doesn't understand because you were enemies, and enemies don't fall in love and don't want to save each other and don't find themselves sobbing when the other dies.

Granger was never your enemy. She was his enemy, and you followed him so that made her you hate her. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. And that only makes you even bitterer because if it weren't for him, maybe she could've loved you too, you could've loved each other and everything would've been right with your world. You would never in a million years deserve her love, but you can dream, can't you? It doesn't even matter, though, because you never had that chance and you never will, even in a world without the war.

Everything hurts, and you're filled with sadness and anger and grief and bitterness and melancholy and every negative emotion you can think of and it boils up inside you until you just have to let it out. In a fit of rage, you punch the wall and your pale skin breaks and your knuckles are stained with crimson. That's barely scratching the surface of all the blood you've had on your hands, you think as you sink to the floor, eyes trained on your hand. You're just as guilty as the rest of them, as your father, your aunt, all those names everyone says with venom in their voices and anger in their eyes and hatred in their hearts.

You're a long way from realizing it, but you're different from the rest of them. You're just as guilty, and your hands still as bloody, but you're _different_. You feel remorse, you feel guilty, and you are forever burdened with that tattoo, the weight of all those deaths you caused. And it's not in spite of that grief, but _because_ of it, that you keep going, because once you realize that, well, you just need to let everyone else see it.


End file.
